Rock Salt and Snowflakes
by that angsty impala
Summary: Things go south when a simple salt and burn isn't quite as simple as it should be. It turns out the Winchester's can't even catch a break on Christmas Eve. Christmas fic. Hurt!Sam/angsty/comforting/protective!Dean
1. Chapter 1

Rock Salt and Snowflakes - A Supernatural Fanfic

 _ **Chapter One**_

 _ **Hi Guys!**_

 _ **It's that time of year again and so in honour of the festive season, this fanfic has been born. I am still writing my other fics, it's just I really wanted to get this one posted before Christmas day!**_

 _ **Christmas is a time for family, so SPN family, this is for you!**_

 _ **Happy Christmas**_

 _ **Enjoy and R &R!**_

" _It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things,_

 _that while there is infection in disease and sorrow,_

 _there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and_ _good humour."_

 _-Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol"_

 _Rock Salt and Snowflakes -Chapter One_

'Why won't you just _die_ already?' Dean Winchester cursed, reloading a handful of fresh salt rounds into the camber of his gun with one hand whilst slapping the now snow-heavy vegetation out of the way with the other. He ran faster, his sawn-off tucked unsteadily in the crook of his arm as he tried to reload the rounds one handed. He stumbled slightly and snarled as he almost lost his shaky grip on the gun, a few shots sliding through his numb fingers. The eldest Winchester swore colourfully in irritation, snapping the now-loaded gun closed as he raised his eyes to the underbrush ahead of him and to his frustration saw no sign of either the ghost's grave or his brother, who was supposedly blowing his pursuer back through the veil as he ran from the undead bastard.

 _And he's doing a piss-poor job._ Dean thought grudgingly as yet another snow-laden branch slapped across his numb jaw. He'd been lapping the spherical cemetery for the past half hour as Sam upturned the grave, and his now frozen, exhausted ass wasn't going to wait for his baby brother any longer.

"Hurry up Sam!" Dean bellowed, the plants ripping at his clothes as he tore forward in earnest, the air around him growing ever colder as the EMF wined shrilly.

"I'm trying!" Came the muffled response, "The salt's not gonna…spread itself, damn it!"

"Well try harder 'cause Casper here's finally figured something's up!"

A slight shimmer in the air to his left snagged Dean's attention and he turned, quick as a whip and prepared to pump the spirit full of salt, but stopped as the ghost disappeared and the sound of the EMF faded out. He stilled and levelling the gun; eyes skimming suspiciously over his dark surroundings from bellow drawn brows. His chest heaved and his breaths came out in short puffs as snow settled like ash in his hair.

"Sam?" Dean called, suddenly suspicious of the ghost's strange antics and lack of presence.

"Yeah," replied the answering holler. "What's going on? You ok?"

"Fine," Dean's tone was low and measured "just trying to figure out where our Funky Phantoms' got to."

"Wait, he's not with you?"

"Not according to the EMF."

"Huh. Well, he's not h-" Sam's reply was cut abruptly short by a sudden cry of "Shit!" and then a sickening snap.

"Sam!" Dean bellowed, once more sprinting forward through the dark forest in the general direction of his brother's voice.

He heard his brother's cry of "Dean!", and threw his body forward with greater resolve, yelling

"I'm coming, Sammy!" as he clawed at the thick vines blocking his path. He threw aside a surprisingly thick wall of vegetation and leapt over a huge fallen oak with a grunt before stumbling through into the graveyard beyond, almost losing his balance as he wind-milled through into the snowy air beyond.

"Shit!" Sam yelled as he was thrown backwards away from the grave that he was trying to set ablaze and into a nearby headstone, his head thumping back with a resounding crack. He groaned lightly, his vision swimming before him like ink in water, and he slid upwards unsteadily against the slab of rock in an attempt to regain both height and balance. He blinked sluggishly, his mind still ten steps behind the rest of his body as he staggered to his feet and tried to find footing in the slushy grass beneath him.

The ghost shimmered into existence above him, outlined in black by the inky sky behind it. Sam gasped as the ghost grasped him one-handed by the front of his coat and smiled sadistically, staring straight into Sam's eyes with a gaze that reeked of steely, psychopathic intent. Out of pure instinct Sam swung an uncoordinated fist in the spectre's direction, oblivious to his subconscious mind behind the pain of his head telling him that it would do nothing. His hand passed straight through the ghost, sending a burst of static energy shooting through the nerves in his arm and a gasp from his mouth.

The ghost smiled wickedly, his rotting teeth protruding from the cavity of his mouth, and his eyes glossy with malicious resolve. In a buzz of movement, the man's arm was raised, a knife held steadily in his knotted palm, the blade poised above Sam's head.

Black spots danced in the corners of Sam's vision and threatened to take him under and his head spun like a top, as if it was trying to screw itself loose from his shoulders. He vaguely registered the downwards swing of the spirit's arm before pain blasted from his shoulder and ricocheted across his chest and down his arm. Sam yelled in pain, the sound somewhat muffled by his teeth biting down on his lip as he was dropped back to the headstone again. He smashed into the ground, blood spilling from both his lip and shoulder and he hissed out a breath through his spasming lungs as fresh waves of pain sprung from the wound in his shoulder.

"You son of a _bitch!_ " Sam gasped, adopting one of Dean's favourite phrases as he fumbled in his jacket pocket with his good arm. He gasped as he gingerly moved the left one, experimentally sliding it along the ground in search of his sawn-off, and hissed a breath from between his teeth, bile welling up in his throat as nausea assaulted his stomach. He slammed his eyes closed; features pinched with pain, and returned his attention to his right hand; for the moment, there was nothing he could do for the left. Upon removing the matches from his pocket with one hand, Sam transferred the small box to his lax and trembling left, which he feebly tried to wrap his fingers around, and after deciding that the gun was not within arm's reach of his left hand, switched the task to his right where he hoped it had fallen beside him. Sam's fingers brushed the smooth barrel of the gun and he sighed in relief. He rolled his head on his shoulder towards the ghost that he could see in front of the grave and painfully struck a match, a breath hissing out from between his teeth with the effort.

"Hey, Casper!" Sam slurred, his mind slow and jumbled. The ghost turned, and for a second the surprise was clear on his face before the rock salt hit him like shrapnel. A scream of frustration filled the air as he disappeared. Sam gave a weary smile, which quickly reformed itself into a grimace, and hastily switched the match to his good hand.

"See y'on t'other side," Sam muttered, flinging the match at the open grave.

Just before the match hit the lighter fluid, a guttural scream sounded through the graveyard, and Sam was thrown backwards, flying backwards until he collided with something, a shocking pain radiating from his knee. His world flipped alarmingly, and then his back slammed into something flat and hard. Maybe a floor or a wall. His fuzzy mind vaguely registered someone shouting his name before his vision tunnelled and he knew no more.

A loud, animalistic cry reached Dean's ears and a gush of upwards- billowing fire assaulted his vision before a heavy, empty quiet settled like a smothering bracket on the graveyard.

The scene that drew his eyes was one of confusion, and for a moment Dean was unsure of what to do or who to attack. A large pile of grave dirt banked the edge of a deep hole, and a shovel lay several feet further to the right. The graveyard was empty as far as Dean could see, and panic started to unfurl in his stomach like a poisons flower.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled, swinging his head from left to right, turning full circle, shoulders leading and shotgun raised. The only reply Dean received was his own, tight voice echoing back at him. Clenching the shotgun in his fist and swallowing in order to quell his panic, Dean trod carefully towards the open grave. His eyebrows knitted together in concern as he took in the alarming pools of blood to the side of the grave. Wherever Sam was, he was in bad shape. Dean needed to find him, soon.

"Sam!" Dean barked again, scooping their torch from the open duffel bag at his feet and swinging the beam across the uneven ground. "Sammy, you answer me!"

The shaft of light the torch provided created eerie, elongated shadows that grew from each gravestone in great swathes of darkness, only adding to the difficulty of Dean's task. Every snowflake caught in the light blurred Dean's already hazy view, and he began to panic. _How the hell was he gonna find Sam amongst all of this?_ Suddenly he stopped, breath held tight in his chest at a rustle reached his ears from beyond his observable surroundings.

"D-Dea-" The soft gasp was filled with barely controlled agony, and the singular sound of his own name from his brother's lips provided Dean with the knowledge that Sam was having difficulty retaining consciousness.

"I'm coming, buddy, I'm coming," Dean assured, already moving at an uneven jog over the crisp, snow covered leaves in the direction of his brother.

Against the treeline, and almost invisible in front of the shadowy backdrop of the vegetation lay a huddled mound on the ground, unmoving and still. Dean sucked in breath as he neared, a further hurried quality entering his step that hadn't been there before. He dropped to his knees before his brother's still form and placed a hand on his coat heavy-shoulder.

"Sam," Dean breathed, his big- brother instincts engulfed by the need to see his brother's eyes. "Sammy, Sam! Look at me!" He shook the shoulder slightly but drew back hastily at the sound of Sam's pained gasp.

"It's ok! Sammy, relax," Dean reassured as he rolled Sam into his lap and winced at the sharp wheeze that the action caused.

"D-Dean? Sam gasped, eyes slitting open in order to see his brother's face.

"Yeah, hey buddy it's me, how bad d'e get you? "

"I'm Ok…just'urts like a…agh" He moaned, sweat forming in a sticky sheen on his forehead.

"Ok, ok," Dean breathed, palming a hand to the side of Sam's neck in an effort to offer him some form of reassurance. "Where Sam?" Dean coaxed, giving his neck a comforting squeeze. Though he didn't want to hurt Sam any further, it was important that he should assess how severe the damage really was.

Sam swallowed thickly, peering up at Dean through half closed lids.

"Shoulder." He breathed shortly, his head thumping back into Dean's lap. "The left one and… and leg, m-maybe ribs." He continued, licking his lips and trying to regain some composure now that he was sure that his brother was with him. "Think, think i's broken." He continued, throat convulsing in an effort to breathe through the pain.

"Ok, I'll take a look, just breathe, tiger." Dean leaned forwards, gently feeling his way around the right calf of Sam's jeans, but removed his hand as soon as possible due to the obvious pain he was inflicting on Sam. A tattered moan escaping through his little brother's clenched teeth as he leant his head back into his brother.

It was defiantly broken, that was for sure, and Dean grimaced at the prospect of having to put it back in place later. Now that was going to hurt.

"That bad, huh?" Sam's whispered, a small smile gracing his pain-lined face.

"Shuddup, sasquatch, " As gently as possible, Dean laid Sam's broken leg back into the snow, wincing as his brother hissed in a breath. "'Kay, sorry, almost done." Sam blinked at him, eyes glassy and clouded with pain.

"Sammy? Sa-What about your shoulder?" Dean's brows drew together as he tried to retain composure, if only for Sam's sake. His tone became more urgent when his brother didn't reply. "Sammy!" Dean lightly shook his shoulder, catching Sam's attention once more.

"I need to look at your shoulder," Dean said, using the same soft tone he would have with Sam when they were kids, maybe fixing a grazed knee with a band aid. He flinched at Sam's pleading expression "I'll be quick, I promise."

Sam nodded tightly, closing his eyes.

Dean gathered his resolve and lent over Sam to get a better look. After a quick glance at Sam's shoulder he sucked in a sharp breath, visibly paling at the mess the spirit had left behind.

Blood pumped sluggishly from the wound and half of Sam's front was already sticky with the stuff. The wound wasn't clean, the skin matted and bloody, sticking tight to the layers of clothing like fish to a kitchen towel.

Breathing through his nose, Dean pressed his fingers into the join, withdrawing quickly and wincing in sympathy as Sam cried out in pain. He raised a shaking fist to Dean's jacket, clutching it tight like a security blanket, eyes rolling.

"Ok, its ok sorry -" He started as the iron grip Sam has on his jacket suddenly loosened, instantly panicking. "Sammy? Sam!"

He pressed his fingers into Sam's neck, feeling for a pulse and slumped backwards, relieved when he found it; it was weak but steady.

"Ok, buddy, ok you just- you take a break." Dean's chin fell into his brother's matted hair, eyes squeezed closed.

The snowfall had worsened in the time it had taken Dean to find Sam, and now lay thick and heavy around the brothers. Sam was still out for the count, breaths puffing out in small clouds, whilst Dean tried to treat his wounds with their limited supply of medical equipment. The military grade first aid kit was still stashed safely in the Winchester's crummy motel room; they shouldn't have needed it anyway: this was supposed to be a simple salt and burn.

The only other medical supplies the Winchesters possessed were those in the car and the small emergency first aid kit in Sam's duffel. Dean hadn't been comfortable leaving Sam alone to reach the Impala for supplies, and so had comprised, stripping off his jacket and wrapping it around his brother before retrieving the first aid kit from beside the burning grave.

The adrenaline was finally beginning to wear off leaving Dean weak and shaky. He needed to stay calm, for Sam if nobody else: his baby brother needed him and Dean freaking and panicking would do nothing to help Sam at all.

"Ok let's just-" First and foremost, Dean had to stop the bleeding from Sam's shoulder. For the brief inspection of the shoulder that Dean had attained, he was almost certain it was dislocated, ball ripped from the joint by the downwards motion of the ghost's attack. If Dean's gut instincts were anything to go from- and after years of experience following those very instincts he was pretty sure they were, there was defiantly a hospital in Sam's future, for better or worse.

For now though, the only thing Dean could do was stop the bleeding, and that was exactly what he was going to do; he wasn't going to lose his baby brother, not on Christmas Eve; not when it was his fault.

Dean ripped off his flannel, and now left only in his t-shirt, pressed the thin material into Sam's profusely bleeding shoulder. Though it wouldn't offer a permanent solution, it was better than leaving the wound unattended. The copious amounts of blood Sam had left on the ground beneath him were proof of that. The cold weather and snow had helped to somewhat slow the flow of blood, but not enough to make any real difference, and that worried Dean: Sam was running out of time.

"C'mon Sammy, just a few more steps." The Winchester brothers had been walking for close to ten minutes before the glinting form of the Impala became visible through the steadily worsening snow. It was by no means a long walk back to the car, but with Sam barely conscious and Dean doing the walking for two people progress was slow and took time that Sam simply didn't have to waste.

There was no way for Dean to transport Sam without further jostling his injuries; the broken leg offering no support for the rest of his body and his shoulder limiting the support that Dean could in turn give him. It was almost physically painful for Dean, watching his younger brother suffer in such a way when there was nothing he could do to help him.

"It's ok, Sam, look there she is… Sammy, just-just lift your head, we're almost…" Dean was panting, the effort of keeping his gargantuan little brother upright finally catching up with him.

Sam was breathless; too, sweat collecting in beads across his brow, the effort of staying conscious was becoming a physically taxing act. Dean was sure it was only stubborn force of will keeping Sam vertical right now, and every gasp of pain from his sibling shoved the stake of regret further into his heart: _They should never have come on this hunt._

"Dea-Dean I'm…I can't…S-sorry"

Sam inwardly cursed himself, appalled by how weak and strained his voice sounded. Somewhere beyond the fog of pain assaulting his every sense was the signature stubbornness of the Winchester family telling him to hold on, to hold on for Dean, to not leave him alone, but after everything, the pain was too much. The darkness came almost as a relief, the agony radiating from both his leg and shoulder fading to a dull throb, and his last coherent thought was one of regret. He knew how much blood he had lost; probably too much to make it out of this alive, and he was just sorry that he couldn't hang on just a few more hours, just to spend one last Christmas with his big brother.

And suddenly Sam didn't want to die, after everything; Jess, Stanford, their father, he just wanted to be with Dean. But Sam was falling, there was nothing he could grab hold of, nothing to slow his descent as all conscious thought left his being.

 _I'm so sorry, Dean._

And then Sam knew no more.

_ A/N: _**The rest of this story is written, and so will be posted as promptly as possible,**_

 _ **Stay safe and Merry Christmas!**_

 _ **Please feel free to leave a Review if you have the time- I love to hear from y'all!**_

 _ **Thank you! :)**_


	2. Chapter 2

Rock Salt and Snowflakes - A Supernatural Fanfic

 _ **Chapter Two**_

 _ **Hi Guys!**_

 _ **It's been a bit of a rush to get this one finished as I have had work every day this week (including Christmas Eve because I just can't catch a break!) but hope you enjoy the fic and Merry Christmas to everyone, hope y'all have an amazing day!**_

 _ **Enjoy and R &R!**_

 _Rock Salt and Snowflakes -Chapter Two_

The drive to the hospital had been a white out for Dean, and he was almost sure he hadn't dipped below eighty at any point during the journey. It was an honest-to-God miracle that no members of the local law enforcement had pulled them over. The Impala had flown dangerously around corners, almost skidding off the road on more than one occasion, the engine creaking and stuttering constantly as if sharing the pain of her two companions.

After Sam had passed out, Dean had slung his brother's giant frame over his shoulder before stumbling the rest of the way out of the graveyard and to the car. After carefully folding Sam into the passenger seat, Dean had raced to the driver's side, throwing himself inside and slamming the door before thrusting the key into the ignition. For a horrible moment, Dean had been afraid that she wouldn't start; there was no time to let the engine warm, and so had turned her over, again, and again until the ignition finally caught.

After that things got fuzzy. It was all winding roads and flashing signs before they finally pulled up at the hospital. Dean had retained physical contact with his brother the whole journey, his palm splayed across his brother's chest; counting breaths, counting heartbeats; making sure his baby brother kept breathing until they reached the hospital.

It was just as they approached the turn off that things began to go oh-so-horribly wrong. A shallow breath. A beat. The hospital sign flashed across Dean's vision. He waited for the next. But it didn't come. Sam wasn't breathing.

"No, no no, no, Sammy? Sammy please-!" Dean floored it, panic stealing his breath, attacking his every sense. No way, no freaking way was Sammy checking out on him. He was _not_ going to lose his baby brother.

The car came to a screeching halt in the ambulance bay, and Dean threw himself from the car and around to the passenger side, heaving his brother's unconscious body from its position in the front of the car. He grabbed a hold of his brother, pressing the saturated material of his shirt more firmly into Sam's shoulder and stumbled the last few metres into the hospital reception.

"Please, somebody help! I can't- he's not." The words tumbled out; there was no logical order to his thoughts, and before he could even begin to fathom an explanation the orderlies were upon them. Sam was ripped from his arms and strapped to a gurney, flat on his back as several medical staff shouted a series of codes and numbers; medical jargon of which Dean had no comprehension. He was vaguely aware of raised voices, words such as 'internal bleeding' and 'cannula'filling his ears and then somebody was talking to him, their voice urgent, asking him something. It was only on the fourth attempt that he finally realised what they wanted, stuttering "Sam, he's-he's my brother, his name's Sam." Before Sam's unconscious form was whisked away and out of sight. Dean stood alone in the empty waiting room, staring after his brother whose blood, still slightly warm, coated the front of his clothing.

It was almost two hours before Dean received any news on Sam's condition, and in that time he'd had more than enough time for his thoughts to turn sour.

Sam had told him it wouldn't be worth pursuing the case on Christmas Eve, pointing out that, most likely, nobody would be around. The snow forecast would make sure of that. But Dean wouldn't listen, eager to be out of the town as soon as possible, when all of the shops and gas stations would be shut down for Christmas Day. They didn't want to find themselves stuck in some cut off honeypot village over Christmas, not after them posing as FBI to the local police force, anyway.

But Sam had drawn the metaphorical short straw, and so instead of choosing to go against his brother, Sam had resided to follow him on the hunt, no matter how much he disagreed with the decision made.

And so here they were, Christmas Eve, Sam in potentially critical condition and Dean, staring across at the double doors, waiting. If Dean had been the praying type, he guessed this would be the kind of time to ask upstairs for a little guidance.

Dean didn't even know who he would be praying to, let alone what to say.

The eldest Winchester was so deep in thought that he didn't even notice the orderly who approached him, and Dean figuratively jumped out of his skin, when the doctor laid their hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry Sir, I didn't mean to startle you; I was told that you came in with Sam, what's your name, Mr-?"

"Larner," Dean replied, pulling the name from the magazine cover on the table beside him. "Sam and Dean Larner, Sam's my brother."

"As I've been told," The man nodded, his overall demeanour somewhat calming to Dean, a quality which must make him a great doctor among patients, he thought. "My name is Dr Harraway," he continued, taking a seat beside Dean, "I'm the one who performed the operation on Sam."

Dean stood, visibly paling. "You-you had to operate?" Even to his own ears, Dean's voice sounded low and scratchy, the hours of worry and lack of fluids finally catching up with him.

The doctor gave a sad smile before addressing Dean's question. "Your brother suffered from heavy internal bleeding from an apparent stab wound to the left shoulder," he paused, assessing Dean for a reaction before continuing. "The bleeding has been stabilised, though Sam defiantly lost more blood than I was comfortable with, so a transfusion was administered as necessary. Sam required a total of thirty-six stitches. The shoulder, however presented further issues, the joint dislocated from the downwards force of the weapon used along with the left collarbone broken." He paused again, whipping his hands on his overalls. "Both the collarbone and shoulder have been stabilised, the shoulder set back in place, although it will be extremely painful and swollen for at the very least the next week," Dean nodded, from all his years of hunting he knew what to expect from a dislocated shoulder. "Sam also received three cracked ribs and severe bruising, which will both remain extremely tender for the next few weeks along with a broken leg on the right side. That has been set and secured with a cast. To accompany this, I have detected a moderate concussion, which we are keeping a close eye on."

A stern look overtook the doctor's features, and he raised his head so that his troubled eyes met Dean's.

"I suspect that I don't quite want to know the full extent by which Sam received such injuries, and so I don't expect either you or your brother to share this information with either me or my colleagues, however," he paused, his face serious. "If Sam, as my patient, is in any further danger related to incident, I will be forced to call on the police. I will not tolerate further harm to any of my patients during their time in my hospital." Dean nodded, relieved by the doctors apparent lack of interest in the past circumstances.

"Yes, Doc, It's…been taken care of, Sam's safe. I won't let him be any other way."

The doctor smiled. For same strange, completely irrational reason he trusted the young man before him, and where some of his co-workers had been quick to accuse Dean of causing the grievous wounds to his brother, it was clear to Dr Harraway that this wasn't the case. He looked back at the younger man as he began to speak again.

"When-can I see him?"

Dr Harraway stood, brushing off his jacket before gesturing ahead of him to a set of double doors leading further into the hospital.

"Please, Mr Larner, right this way."

Upon entering Sam's room, had it not been for the wall to Dean's left, he would have most likely collapsed. Dean leant heavily upon the doorframe, staring into the room, barely noticing Dr Harraway entering behind him. His brother's still form lay pale and unmoving in a bed surrounded by monitors and wires, several IV lines protruding from the fold of Sam's right arm. The left lay strapped across his chest in a navy sling, rising and falling gently with each steady intake of breath, and bandages were visible peeking through from underneath his hospital gown. His face was pail, a split lip clotting over on one side and bruising blossoming across one temple from beneath his hairline. A cannula snaked from under his nose to an oxygen tank positioned off to one side, and the steady, rhythmic beat of the heart monitor was the only sound to pierce the heavy silence of the room.

"Sammy…" Dean stumbled to the bed, his vision tunnelling towards Sam's prone form. He nodded in thanks as somebody pushed a chair into the back of his knees and he sank down into it, his eyes still fixed on his unconscious brother.

"He's heavily sedated," The doctor addressed Dean quietly from where he had paused in the doorway of the room. "We had to anesthetize him in order to fix his shoulder, leg and collarbone; awake the pain would have been excruciating."

"Thank you," Dean's voice caught as he stared at his peacefully sleeping brother. Sam always looked so young when he rested, the years of hunting and heartache falling away to reveal the innocent baby brother that Dean had practically raised.

The doctor nodded solemnly, recognising the brothers' need to be alone. "Just so that you are aware, Mr Larner, we wouldn't advise Sam should consume any kind of alcohol due to the strong sedatives he's currently on; they should take a day or two to completely flush from his system, but I'll speak to the nurses; organise for you to stay as long as you need." Dean nodded once again, shoulders slumping as the Dr Harraway left the room.

"Damn it, Sammy," He spoke quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "Only us Winchesters, huh?" he paused, hoping for any indication of acknowledgement from Sam's lax features, but nothing changed; his brother just kept right on sleeping.

Dean continued, unperturbed by Sam's lack of response.

"The doctor thinks you'll be ok, buddy. They fixed y'up, almost as good as I could have, too. You look like a mummy covered in all those bandages, y'know, like that time when you were eight and we wrapped you in toilet paper for Halloween, remember Sammy?" Dean's eyes searched Sam's face, once again desperate for any sign that Sam had heard him. If he had, he didn't show.

Dean's hand found his brothers and he gave it a light squeeze, his voice catching in his throat.

"C'mon, Sammy, don't leave me alone on Christmas."

Sam was drifting: there was no other way of describing it. He felt nothing, was nowhere and for a moment, he feared he was dead. He didn't remember dying though, surly he would remember that.

But there was only darkness.

Then he began to hear sounds. A soft, whining beep, repeating at regular intervals and a low, continuous voice. It was comforting, familiar even, and it called to him in a way the darkness couldn't. It was calling out, it was laden with guilt, regret, and that fact alone was almost frightening to Sam: that voice should never sound so broken.

He struggled upwards towards the voice and it grew louder, so he carried on. He had to reach it.

Conscious returned as a dull tingling, spreading from several parts of his body and radiating outwards. Every beep from the outside world sent a throb of pain through his body and he groaned, unaccustomed to the new sensation.

Suddenly the voice stopped and Sam panicked; he needed to _see,_ why couldn't he see?

The voice returned, full of emotion and hope and calling for him to wake up and that was the last push that Sam needed.

Slowly, ever so gently, Sam peeled his eyes open. He squinted through heavy lashes, the light invasive and painful on his tender head, and it was in that moment that he noticed how much his head hurt. He tried to lift his hands but started in pain and confusion as he was unable too, a jolt of pain racing down the limb. He tensed, a low moan escaping him, and then there was the voice, calm and soothing, a hand carding through his hair. He rolled his head to the side, eyelids heavy and stared into the face of his brother. Relief crashed through him in waves and he rolled his head back, eyes never leaving his brothers.

"Dea-"

"Hey, Sammy."

Dean's eyes were brimming with emotion, his voice cracked and scratchy as if he had been talking for hours. There was a comforting pressure upon Sam's hand and he nervously flexed his fingers, realising it was Dean's hand in his and smirked.

"Thought-no chick flicks'aloud."

Dean smirked, taken aback by Sam's comment and squeezed his hand tighter, hope unfurling like a flower in the pit of his stomach.

"Where're we?" Sam mumbled, turning his tired eyes to the window. The sun was rising, the sky throwing pink and orange light across the sill. Snow fell softly, the flakes large and fluffy, piling up across the ground: it had obviously been snowing for a while. He turned back to his brother as he began to speak.

"Hospital" He said, watching Sam for a reaction. "Casper got a little pissed and decided to use you as a pincushion," He paused, waiting for Sam's eyes to reach his. "It was close, Sammy."

Sam stared at his brother, taking a closer look at him. He was slumped in the chair beside his bed, hair messy, clothing crumpled and dark circles under his eyes; all pointing to a definite lack of sleep. His brother probably hadn't left his side all night.

"I'm sorry, Dean." Dean looked startled, and in that moment, Sam knew he'd said the wrong thing.

"What the hell for?"

"If I'd just moved faster, if I'd been paying more attention I could have-"

Dean sprang up from his chair, tension lining every muscle of his body.

"No, no way, kiddo, you don't get to pin the blame for this one, it's all on me." Dean looked haggard, guilt tearing at his heart and Sam could feel it, almost as if it was his own. "Dislocated shoulder, concussion, a broken leg and collarbone, not to mention the thirty-six freaking stitches they had to do, hell, Sam, you almost bled out."

He turned away, brow furrowed and voice watery.

"I almost lost you, Sammy. You really think I can just let that go?"

Sam swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly tight with emotion and immediately started coughing. Dean was there in an instant, heaving him up against the headboard as the coughing wracked his body, jostling his arm and collarbone painfully.

"Easy Sam, easy, take it slow."

After a while the coughing faded out and Sam sank back against his brother, now positioned behind him, holding him upright.

"You ok, Sam?" Dean was worried; brow knitted and eyes searching Sam's face for any signs of further injury.

"Water," Sam rasped, throat dry and scratchy. Dean reached beside him to the bedside table, producing a cup of water which he then helped Sam to sip. When he was done Sam exhaled, leaning backwards into his brother and closed his eyes. Suddenly Sam spoke, opening his eyes and turning to his brother.

"The date," He smirked at the confused look on his brother's face. "It was the twenty-fourth yesterday."

Dean looked confused for a moment longer before he too smiled, some of the tension of the last twelve hours leaving his face.

"Today's the twenty-fifth,"

Dean nodded, smirking.

"And I'm the only one who can actually drink the egg nog this year, " He grinned at Sam's confused expression.

"Doctor's orders."

Sam's face split into a smile and he laughed, properly, for the first time in days, and with it came a sudden rush of relief. Sure, he couldn't drink the egg nog, there wouldn't be a turkey for the Winchesters, but he was here; alive, spending Christmas with his brother, and in that moment, that's all that mattered. Sleep was tugging at his senses, and though powerless to stop it, Sam didn't mind; he knew his brother would be there when he woke again.

Dean smirked as Sam began to fall asleep, pulling the blankets further up his chest; things were by no means fixed, but Christmas was certainly a good place to start.

"Merry Christmas, Jerk."

Dean laughed.

"Merry Christmas, Bitch."

 _ **And there you have it guys, I apologise in advance for any typos, I haven't had much time to check it over!**_

 _ **Happy Christmas, everyone!**_

 _ **Please feel free to leave a Review if you have the time- I love to hear from y'all!**_


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